The Private Life of Mrs Sharma

by Ratika Kapur

  Still, I think that the main reason that I don’t like Sundays is because I can’t go to work. I enjoy work. I enjoy being busy, work-busy, which is totally different from being house-busy. When you are house-busy it is not only your body that gets tired, which is fine, but your mind also gets very tired. So, I work at a famous doctor’s clinic in Gurgaon, and it is a good job. Dr Raghubir Singh is a world-famous gynaecologist and obstetrician. He sees patients at his clinic in the mornings, and in the afternoons and evenings he does surgeries and his rounds at a big private hospital, which is centrally air-conditioned and has all the latest machines. Doctor Sahib has medical degrees from grand, grand institutions like AIIMS and the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists in England, degrees that are framed in fancy gold-painted wood and hung all over the walls of the clinic, and even though he is a male doctor, his waiting room looks like a bus station, filled with patients who have waited for weeks and weeks to get an appointment. And these patients are not the types of women you see on the Metro or in your local market. They, or their husbands, are all rich and have many contacts. They are ladies from big business families, or wives of politicians or Class One officers or multinational executives, or are themselves politicians or Class One officers or multinational executives. They are ladies who live in Gurgaon’s poshest apartment complexes, which have twenty-four-hour power and water, and swimming pools and gyms, or ladies from localities like Vasant Vihar or Golf Links, or ladies who live in one of those white bungalows near Connaught Place. I know this because I meet them daily. I am the person who keeps all their personal information in files. But I should say here that Doctor Sahib also does quite a lot of charity work. Every Saturday afternoon without fail he goes to a village near Manesar, where he sees village women for free, and every Thursday morning without fail he gives free consultations at the clinic to poor people, poor people like ayahs and washerwomen, and wives and daughters of drivers and gardeners and watchmen.

  I have been working at the clinic for nine years, since Bobby was six years of age. My in-laws and husband don’t mind because the clinic is open from 8.30 am to 12.30 pm and so I am already at home when Bobby comes back from school. I also get free check-ups and treatment. It is a good job.

  But the truth is that it is not my dream job. See, if my mother had not become sick and my father did not have to spend all of his income, almost all of it, on her medical bills, I would have been a schoolteacher, a respected schoolteacher in a big school here in Delhi. I had always dreamt of being a schoolteacher. My father also did. Obviously he believed that a girl has to perform all her domestic duties, but he also thought that a girl should work, and because of a schoolteacher’s timings he believed that she could do both. My dream was to do a BEd degree, and my father, who was a very broadminded man, was even ready to send me to Delhi for my studies. But by the time I passed out from school we had no money, and my father actually suffered two heart attacks because of this, so I had to start earning a salary as soon as I could. I enrolled in a secretarial course, which I topped, and the truth is that even if I was studying for a BEd, I think that I could have been a topper. So, as I had planned, I got a job immediately after I completed the secretarial course. I could have worked as a secretary for one of the big lawyers or property dealers of Meerut, but I don’t actually like the types of girls who work as personal secretaries. They can be quite cheap sometimes, quite foolish, flirty and cheap. And what is a secretary actually? Isn’t she just a substitute wife for the boss? Like his wife, she provides tea and snacks for the man and answers the phone for him. Like his wife, she is his protector, keeping him safe from unwanted elements of the world outside. At home his wife protects him from irritating children, interfering relatives, uninvited guests. At work his secretary protects him from unscheduled patients, annoying pharma sales reps, unhappy employees. And I don’t think that I need to tell anybody what else some secretaries do that actually only wives are supposed to do. I think that everybody knows. Whatever it is, I did not want to do any of these things and that is why I decided to be a receptionist, and I think that it was the right decision.

  So, I worked as a receptionist at a small private hospital for one year that time when I lived in Meerut, before I got married, and now, here in Delhi. But I won’t work at Doctor Sahib’s clinic forever and ever. The truth is that I am not like those other women who have no ambition, who think that work is just timepass that will give them a little bit of pocket money. No. One day, when my husband and I save enough money, I will start a training academy for Office Management, Computer Proficiency, Personality Development and Grooming, Business English, everything. My father used to say that a person’s determination is his real power. I have still not told my husband, but I am determined to have my own business one day.

  But just now I work at Dr Raghubir Singh’s clinic and it is a good job. I have many duties. I type out all the letters, which Doctor Sahib dictates to me because I know shorthand, and I should say here that this is one of the reasons why he respects me, because how many people these days actually know shorthand? I answer calls, I sign for couriers, I do all the filing of patients’ forms and cards, and I take all the payments. I have to make sure that the servants keep the whole clinic absolutely clean, that not one stain or one dot of dust should be seen, because Doctor Sahib is very, very particular about that, and that everything from the floor to the ceiling should shine. Every Thursday I even make one of the servants use sellotape to pull off any fallen hairs on the carpet in the waiting room. It is also my duty to make sure that the office boys and lab assistants are doing their jobs properly. So, even if my designation is receptionist and even if some of the work that I do could be called secretarial, I am actually more like the office manager.

  I can talk in English quite nicely. I went to an English-medium school, my father was very particular that I attend an English-medium school, and for four years I even studied at a convent that was run by proper Irish nuns, not those Malayali sisters from Kerala. My husband taught me Word and Excel, and I learnt a little bit of PowerPoint on my own, so I am also quite proficient with computers, and I am excited because last month Doctor Sahib said that he is going to buy a computer that will only be for me to use.

  Bobby and I Skyped with my husband this morning. We have a computer in the house, a Dell-brand computer that my husband’s friend bought on our behalf from an auction at the American Embassy, because he has some contacts there, so it is an imported one and not one of those cheap assembled computers from Nehru Place. Bobby spends most of his time on it, but I also use it sometimes. It has a webcam, and we use it to Skype with my husband every Friday and Sunday. We talk every Friday because my husband works in Dubai and, being a very Muslim type of place, that is the off-day over there, and Sundays, obviously, because that is when Bobby and I are at home. And from time to time, my in-laws also use Skype to talk to their daughter and son-in-law in Canada.

  So, we talked to my husband today. First Bobby gave him some long story about why his marks in the last unit tests were so-so, and then I took the headphones to talk. My husband looked tired and I told him this. He said that he had had a very busy day at the hospital yesterday. Still, he tried to look happy as he has always tried to do, and he asked me about Papaji and Mummyji, and why Bobby’s studies were suffering. He told me that he had gone for a long walk on the beach on Friday evening and that he kept thinking about me. I forgot to ask him if it was Jumeirah Beach, which is where he sometimes goes on Friday evenings and where, he says, the world’s most beautiful hotels have been built. We did not speak for too long because he had to go to the hospital. He was wearing a light blue shirt and red tie. Even though he was tired, he still looked handsome.

  My husband’s name is Dheeraj Sharma. He is a physiotherapist at a government hospital in Dubai. He has been there for one and a half years, and earns a good salary that is totally tax-free. He saves most of his money because he shares a small, little flat with four other men and li
ves like a sadhu, and every three months without fail he wire-transfers money to my bank account.

  Except for Rosie from the clinic, whose husband also works in Dubai, people are always saying to me, Oh ho, you poor woman, your husband is so far away! Oh ho, you poor woman, you must be missing him such a lot! Oh ho, you poor woman! and what not. It is true that he is far away, even though from Delhi it is faster to reach Dubai by air than to reach Chennai. And it is true that I miss him. But what can I say? We have duties. As parents, as children, we have duties. I could keep my husband sitting in my lap all day, but when my in-laws grow older and get sick, who will pay for the hospital bills? The government? It took my father-in-law four years of begging and bribing the CGHS and maybe ten years of his life to get the reimbursement for his prostate operation.

  And what about my son’s education? Bobby is a good boy and most of the time he gets around ninety per cent in his final exams, but what is ninety per cent today? Ninety per cent does not guarantee anything today. What these people who keeping poking their noses in my life don’t understand is that today the cut-offs at all the good colleges are ninety-five per cent or more, and so maybe we will be forced to put him in one of the new private universities, and these places have very high fees that we would never be able to afford if my husband remained in India, even if you include my salary and the little bit of extra money I make, which is only from small, little cuts from one or two of the suppliers that we use at the clinic, normally from the man who sells us ink cartridges and printer paper, and sometimes from the man who provides cleaning and sanitation supplies, and I only make this little extra money when the price of onions goes up and, I swear on God and I swear on my husband, never ever at any other time because then that would be greedy and wrong. So we need to save up money for Bobby’s BCom, because BAs and BScs are actually timewaste, and then we also need money for Bobby’s MBA. Bobby has to do his MBA because he is going to work in a multinational company or an international bank. But admissions for MBAs are so competitive that he will have to take costly coaching classes for the entrance test. How would we pay for all this? Sometimes I want to ask these people, these people who go on and on with their pity, who make me seem like I am some stone-hearted witch, sometimes I want to ask them one question, just one simple question. When my in-laws’ medical bills grow into lakhs of rupees, when my son has to do his further studies, who will save us? Will love and romance save us?

  3

  Thursday, 19 May 2011

  I saw Vineet outside the station on Tuesday morning. He smiled and walked up to me, and then we walked down to the platform together. The train was late and so we started talking. He is an intelligent man. He reads the Times of India in English every morning. He says that he also always reads the Business section. I am always telling Bobby about how important it is to read the newspaper. It greatly improves one’s general knowledge, which is important for MBA entrance exams, job interviews and everything else. Vineet told me that the real estate sector is going through some very serious problems and until it is granted industry status, builders, developers and consumers, basically everybody, will suffer. I like to talk about such topics. I know that one day I will talk to my son about them. And then the train came. Vineet and I got on and stood quietly side by side as we normally do.

  Before we got off the train he asked me if I would agree to have lunch with him. For two or three seconds I did not say anything. I had been a little bit troubled that night after our outing to India Gate, a little bit troubled by his behaviour on the phone. But what had he actually done? I like talking to you, that was all he said, and that was all he meant. He did not tell me that he would bring me the stars from the sky. He is not that type of man, I know it. Romance is of no interest to him because that type of love always slows you down on the road to success, and he would allow nothing, he would allow nobody, to slow him down. That is surely why he is still not married. It is the man who walks alone who walks fastest, and Vineet, I am sure, likes to walk alone.

  So, I did agree and we met each other for lunch yesterday, Wednesday, after I finished work at the clinic. It was his off-day. In the hotel industry, he told me, Sundays and even gazetted holidays are never guaranteed holidays for employees except if you are very senior or you work in a department like Finance. He works in Food & Beverage or F&B. The timings are very long and you even have to work on Diwali sometimes.

  Vineet came all the way to Gurgaon on his motorbike to pick me up. I told him to meet me at the IFFCO Chowk station, and he was there at exactly 12.45 pm, as I had asked him to be. We decided to go to DLF Place in Saket, even though I would have been happy to go to any mall at all. Malls bring peace to me. It is true that it is always nice to see those salespersons in the showrooms dressed in smart clothes and those beautiful displays in the showroom windows, but what I like most is the cool and clean of the building, the cool air and the clean floors. I walk into a mall not to buy things, because everything is at least thirty per cent costlier than what is in the market, and then everything is also fixed price so you can’t even bargain. I walk into a mall not to buy things, but to find peace.

  We had a nice time together. We sat near the fountains outside, even though it was quite hot, and we talked about various topics. Vineet was in a talkative mood. I asked him to tell me more about his job and he told me that the hotel he works in is called a boutique hotel, which basically means that it is a small hotel, but even though it is small, it actually has only twenty-one rooms, even then it offers every type of fancy thing that big business executives want, including a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. It even has RO-filtered drinking water in the bathroom taps. He said that there are people who travel such a lot for work that they actually get bored of five-star hotels and prefer to stay in these small but very fancy hotels. His guests are basically foreigners.

  Food is the most important thing for a hotel guest, he said, and I am the person who manages it all. The kitchen, the restaurant and room service, I manage it all. And as the F&B manager, the chefs, the restaurant manager, the waiters, all of them report to me.

  But can you actually cook, Mr F&B? I said jokily.

  I could be the next MasterChef India, he said, with a big smile on his face. If I wanted it, I could be sitting with Akshay Kumar in his car outside Chic Fish drinking beer and eating tandoori chicken.

  I laughed. But do you drink beer? I said.

  Obviously not, he said.

  Actually, I knew that he did not. Not that it matters to me, but I know that Vineet is not that type of man. My husband also does not drink alcohol, and he does not even smoke. He eats meat from time to time but never ever in the house.

  Bobby was a little bit agitated and angry that I came back home at five o’clock because I normally come back from the clinic before two o’clock to give him his lunch. Still, my in-laws greeted me with love, as they always do. Mummyji even offered to make me a cup of tea. That is how they are, my in-laws. They treat me as a daughter. They treat me with love, with love and respect. My father used to say, It is one thing to command respect, and it is another thing to give respect where it is due. Maybe I am a respectable woman from a respectable family, but my in-laws also have big enough hearts to give me the respect that I deserve. This is a rare quality. But then my in-laws are rare people. Money, for example, means nothing to them. These days, when everybody is looking for the most profitable marriage alliances for their children, my in-laws chose me for my family background, not my father’s bank balance. My father was a simple shopkeeper, he had a small, little textbook and stationery shop in Meerut, and whatever little bit he earned he spent on his daughter’s education and his wife’s medical bills. That is why he had nothing in the bank. Still, my in-laws did not mind. They did not want anything from him, not a microwave, not a Maruti, and I will never ever forget how when my father sent them sweets at our engagement time, they kindly accepted the sweets, but then and there they gave back the silver tray on which the sweets were sent. I wi
ll never ever forget that. How can I?

  And I think I can say that in all the years that I have been married, seventeen years actually, I have also not given them any reason to complain. Even if I think very hard, I can’t actually remember one word that I have said or one action that I have committed in all these years that has given them any pain. Maybe there was one time just after my husband left, when my mother-in-law walked into the bedroom one Sunday afternoon and caught me sleeping in my husband’s shirt. She was disturbed by that, which I think was fully understandable, and she said that it was a little bit indecent and childish, and obviously it was, and I was ashamed of my behaviour, and I promised to myself and to her that I would never ever behave like that again. But except for this one time, I don’t think that I have given any problems at all to my in-laws, and so if from time to time I do something like come back home a little bit late, as I did yesterday, they are not troubled by it.

  Still, Bobby was a little bit angry that I came back home at five o’clock, even though I had told him in the morning that Doctor Sahib had given me some extra filing work to do and that I would be late. When I entered the house he was lying on Papaji’s cot in front of the TV and refused to look up at me. And obviously he had not eaten his lunch. That boy is almost sixteen years of age, but one thing he won’t do is eat without me. Bobby won’t even eat with his grandparents. He likes to loiter around in the kitchen while I prepare his food, and my mother-in-law does not allow him to do that, and then he wants me to sit by his side while he eats, as I do almost daily, at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner. And why not? A child has to have action and fun, but he also has to have some type of steadiness in his life. He gets a lot of peace from it. If he cannot expect this steadiness from his mother, then who can he expect it from? And it is a privilege for a mother, for somebody who has, by God’s grace, been blessed with a boy, to fulfil those expectations.